


Never Let Go

by Zendelai



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Titanic, Background Isabela/Merrill, Don't expect a happy ending, F/M, Feminist Titanic, RMS Titanic, There will be a disaster, Young Sebastian
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-09
Updated: 2018-05-10
Packaged: 2019-05-04 13:30:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14594073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zendelai/pseuds/Zendelai
Summary: After the sudden death of his father, Sebastian Vael boards a ship headed to Starkhaven, where he will take the throne.After a lucky hand of cards, Ava Hawke boards the same ship, seeking only adventure.Titanic AU, historically set in the 1910s but geographically set in Thedas.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Since I have no sense of self-restraint and I'm currently obsessed with Titanic, I'm starting a new project. 
> 
> There will be love. There will be tragedy. This is something I'm writing solely for myself to be honest. So, enjoy. Or don't. It will be written either way.

The sound of Sebastian’s inkwell crashing on the tile floor was amplified in the otherwise silent night.

 

Words of horror, of abject fear, of prayer, filled his mouth, but his lips were too heavy with grief to allow them to escape. 

 

His gaze slipped to the tiles, where black ink ran through grout, like river water expanding in a flood. 

 

In the confined space, his mother’s words were too loud when she said, “I’m sorry, Sebastian.” 

 

The ink, it was still spreading, never slowing, drawing sharp patterns in its wake. 

 

His throat felt full, and his head felt empty. He felt vaguely nauseous. 

 

“I am… the King of Starkhaven now?”

 

The bench he was seated on shifted when his mother sat beside him, placing a hand on his arm. It was cold; she was always cold. 

 

“Yes.”

 

His nausea became more imminent at the thought. 

 

Sebastian was no king.

 

He was neither fit for it nor desired it. Being the king’s eldest son made his fate inevitable, but a naive part of himself believed that his father would live forever, or at least longer than him. His father was the one born with a kingly disposition; with kindness, with patience, with a firm hand when necessary. 

 

But now he was gone, taken too suddenly by an illness which seemed too inconsequential to cause such grief and pain. 

 

For a moment, Sebastian wished it was he who had fallen ill. He who had died. He who would be mourning. To be left on this earth without his father, and with the weight of a kingdom on his shoulders, was too much to bear. 

 

“You must be strong.” It was his mother again, her words as sharp as the nails which dug into his forearm, leaving crescent-shaped bites. A fierce queen she had always been, and an equally fierce mother. She was the lash and his father the soothing balm; without him, she would just be a relentless lash, even as a queen mother. “Do not let your grief cloud your judgment, there is much to be done. We must return to Starkhaven immediately, show your strength by having you sworn in. We will then find you a bride.”

 

He closed his eyes, shook his head. “This is not right for me. I can’t, I --”

 

Deeper and deeper, her fingernails dug in. “You  _ must. _ ”

 

Still the ink spread, but more slowly now. For a flash he wondered if blood spread like that, rapidly and unforgivingly, and he had to swallow bile. 

 

He did not wish to be king, or royalty for that matter. He wished to see the world, to taste the foods of Rivain and touch the waters of Antiva, see the dogs of Ferelden and the fashions of Orlais. As a king he could travel, yes; but always under the bounds of royalty and necessity. From henceforth his life would be dedicated not to his own desires, but to the needs of his country. His people. 

 

So like his father was he, filled with a wanderlust that could never be sated. As always, his father’s words rang true: “We do what we must, not what we wish, because we are Vaels and it is our duty.”

 

Sebastian may have resented it, but there was no choice. It was his duty, as it had been since the day he was born. 

 

So he asked his mother, “When do we leave?”

 

The softest of smiles was granted to him in return, a rare sight on his mother’s wrinkled visage. 

 

“I have arranged passage for us, on a ship that departs in two days. It is the maiden voyage of the grandest ship ever built; they say she's unsinkable. It is a fitting way for a king to arrive back in his country.”

 

For all Sebastian cared, it could have been a wooden dinghy or a ship crafted entirely of gold. 

 

He would resent it either way, for it would carry him to his cage. 

 

* * *

 

Ava Hawke had nothing in her life except for a good hand of cards and her closest friend at her side. 

 

Over the years she had lost her family, all of it, parents and two siblings, to accident and to illness. Like dominoes they had toppled, one by one, leaving only her. Her mother was noble-born, but left a wealthy engagement to marry Hawke’s poor father. Even when they were so poor they lived on nothing but grits and stale cheese, Hawke did not resent her mother for that. 

 

With no family to speak of and no money to her name, Hawke had travelled to the most distant corners of the world, living off of odd jobs and food given to her out of pity. Somewhere along the line she met Isabela, a woman who possessed equally small amounts of money and dignity. Together they had lived -- truly lived -- never burdened by obligation or debt. 

 

It was wonderful. Hawke had nothing, but she had everything. She had gotten drunk with Antivan sailors, scaled Chantry buildings with Orlesian urchins, eaten Nevarran food so spicy it made her vomit, and climbed to the highest point of the distant island of Seherron. She spoke four languages fluently, and three more terribly. 

 

With all the strength she possessed, she pulled the pieces of her life together and made something wonderful out of it.

 

She never said no to an opportunity or a challenge, and there was nothing that she feared to lose because she had lost it all already. 

 

Which was why, after glancing at Isabela over her cards, she pushed all her bills -- all her money -- into the middle of the table. 

 

“All in.”

 

She could feel it, the heat of the gazes of curious onlookers into their game. They had been playing for hours, back and forth, Hawke and Isabela against a pair of blonde brothers from the Anderfels, bets that started as buttons and lint becoming bets for everything they had. 

 

Isabela’s brow raised at her infinitesimally, and Hawke slowly blinked in way of a nod. The brothers’ shared glances were more obviously concerned, showing in pinched brows and wide eyes. 

 

The brothers were out of money, and they all knew it. 

 

Hawke’s Ander was terrible, but she did know the word for “shit”, which one brother was repeating. The other responded in encouraging tones; clearly, he thought his hand was good enough to go all in.

 

On top of the piles of bills, the second brother placed a pair of tickets. Third-class tickets on the ship sailing out of Kirkwall’s port at eleven bells the next morning, the  _ Titanic _ . 

 

Hawke’s heart lunged with desire. The adventurous part of her simply wanted to be on a ship as grand as this one, one whose name left people’s lips in reverent tones. The practical part of her had heard of the recent gold rush in Starkhaven, its destination, guaranteeing her work. And the restless part of her was tired of Kirkwall and looking for any excuse to get out.

 

“Let’s see those hands, boys,” Isabela cooed.

 

If they lost this, they lost everything. They would have to beg for their meals and resort to who-knows-what to refill their purses. 

 

But if they won? It would be their most grand adventure yet.

 

“Nothing,” the first brother said, laying down a terrible hand of cards.

 

Isabela said, “Pair of jacks,” laying down her hand. 

 

The second brother winked before laying down his; it was good enough that both Isabela and the first brother’s eyebrows shot up quickly. “Full house.”

 

“Isabela,” Hawke began, “I’m sorry.”

 

As she resigned herself to more days of hunger and uncertainty, Isabela’s brows fell as quickly as her shoulders. 

 

“I’m sorry,” she continued, no longer able to hide her smile, “that we’ll need to tarnish your pretty hands with gold when we go to Starkhaven.” Triumphantly, she splayed her cards out on the table. “Royal flush!”

 

Isabela whooped and screamed at the top of her lungs, jumping up on her chair and throwing her arms in the air. Hawke met her halfway, jumping on the table to embrace her, laughing into her friend’s dark hair. Distantly, she heard the brothers begin to fight. 

 

“We’re going to Starkhaven!”


	2. Chapter 2

He was drowning in finery.

 

In his two decades as prince, he had never seen such a heavy-handed use of gold for decoration. The curtains and the bedsheets were made of gold brocade, contrasting with the deep crimson walls, which were dotted with abstract paintings that likely cost half of the ship’s budget. The paint was so fresh he could still faintly smell it beneath the salt of the sea and heavy-handed perfumes. 

 

It was all the pinnacle representation of the facade of wealth. He was a king now, so he must enforce his status and power with displays of wealth, even when none other than the serving girls assigned to the suites for him and his mother would see them. 

 

One of those poor serving girls was receiving a verbal lashing from his mother right now. 

 

“The thread count on these sheets is completely unacceptable. Do we look like third class patrons? This is the King of Starkhaven!”

 

The girl sputtered, “I’m so sorry ma’am, I--”

 

“It's alright.” Sebastian turned to face her -- she had gone pale. He kept his tone gentle when he said, “These will suffice, thank you. You are dismissed.”

 

The girl spun on her heel and left in a flurry of skirts, quietly shutting the door behind herself, leaving Sebastian and his mother alone. Other than the soft lapping of waves outside the open window the room was silent, the pounding of the engine muffled by the floors between themselves and the boilers. 

 

When his mother’s words broke the silence, her voice was low but sharp. “You cannot be so forgiving to the help, it is a sign of weakness.”

 

With a sigh, he said, “If I am to be king, I will be a benevolent one.”

 

“Benevolent kings are destroyed for their weakness.”

 

“And cruel kings are usurped for their madness. If I am to be murdered either way, I will do it on my own terms.”

 

“You are incorrigible,” she chided with a sharp shake of her head. “If you didn’t have me, you’d be nothing.” 

 

Sebastian began to prepare a retort, but it was interrupted by a knock on their door. A stewart clad in white entered. “If it pleases you, lunch is served in fifteen minutes. Sir, madam.”

 

After passing him a look that warned him their conversation wasn’t over, Sebastian and his mother followed the stewart to the dining area.

 

* * *

 

The sun dusted Ava’s cheeks when she gazed up into the perfectly clear sky above the ship. Her ears were filled with a cacophony of sound, gulls screeching and water rushing and children on deck laughing. The smell of salt water was sharp in her nostrils, but she treasured it nonetheless; to her, it smelled of freedom. 

 

“Incredible, isn’t it?” Isabela mused from beside her, where she was laying on deck, the sun’s rays tickling her copper skin. “The sea. The sun. The engine rumbling belowdecks, carrying us to our future. I could live like this, you know.” 

 

Hawke laughed softly. “You could be captain, perhaps? You’d look good in the suit.”

 

“You know me, kitten. I can’t stand to wear pants. I’d look much better in pirate garb.”

 

That made Hawke’s laugh turn raucous. “So you’d rather steal this ship than captain it?”

 

“Oh yes, theft is much more fun.”

 

While Hawke and Isabela laughed together, she couldn’t help but notice a slip of a girl with short, dark hair wander past them, muttering, “Oh dear me, this can’t be right,” while wringing her hands. 

 

“Are you lost?” Hawke called out.

 

“No, I’m Merrill.” The moment the words escaped she covered her mouth with her hand, pale cheeks flushing red. Her words muted by her hand, she muttered, “Yes, I seem to be lost.”

 

Isabela laughed gently, and in low tones muttered, “I think I like her.” She turned to Merrill and asked, “What are you looking for?”

 

“Fourth class, the nice men said it was where I would find my room? They seemed nice, at least. Or, well, they were laughing a lot. I hope it wasn’t at me.”

 

Isabela stood and approached Merrill, wrapping a cordial arm around her shoulders. “Fourth class is as real as mermaids, sweet thing. Why don’t you stick with us, and we’ll help show you around the ship? After we enjoy some sun, of course. I’m Isabela, and this is Hawke.”

 

Merrill’s shoulders sagged in relief. “That would be… yes. Thank you.” 

 

* * *

 

“The ship is marvelous, Mr. Anders. A true work of art and an engineering marvel. It is a pity there must be a third class at all, but I suppose you must put something down there other than storage.” His mother laughed, and a few of the wealthy folks beside her joined in. Sebastian felt ill again. 

 

“You are too kind, Madame Vael.” Mr. Anders smiled softly, his expression admittedly kinder than the rest of the absurdly wealthy that surrounded him at the table.

 

“I do feel truly honoured to be on your ship, and to be able to dine with you.” Sebastian vaguely wondered if his mother would start shining the ship designer’s boots next. “Don’t you agree, Sebastian?”

 

Sebastian knew what his mother wished for him to say. “Yes, mother,” she expected, “the most beautiful and wonderful ship I’ve ever seen. Mr. Anders, may I lick your shoes in thanks? Clean your bedpan, perhaps?” 

 

Sebastian Vael was many things, a liar not being one of them.

 

“It’s a big large, don’t you think? It lacks maneuverability. The size is for the sake of ostentatiousness, not practicality. You’re only stroking the egos of the rich.”

 

“Sebastian!” his mother chided, abashed. “Apologize to Mr. Anders!”

 

Sebastian stood, and bowed at Mr. Anders with a flourish. “I apologize, Mr. Anders, that you’ve turned the art of ship designing into a contest of manhood. Please excuse me.”

 

He turned on his heel and left, leaving the sound of his mother’s fervent apologies to Mr. Anders in his wake.

 

Was this to be his life? Using flattery to earn the favour of anyone in power? Treating those below him like lesser beings to prove his own worth?

 

It all made him sick.

 

Where were the modest kings? Those who treat their people as equals? If he were to be king, must he be cruel for posterity? If he wasn’t, was he asking for an invasion? Would he be putting his people at risk by being kind?

 

A pair of stewarts held glass doors out for him that lead outside and he stepped through. The air was crisp but the sun immediately warmed his cheeks. He stepped out to a railing, gripping it with white knuckles as he tried to reign in his frustration.  

 

It was appearing that he could not be himself, could not hold to his beliefs, while being king. But he had no choice but to be king. Did he have to transform himself into someone he couldn’t recognize for the sake of his kingdom? 

 

Why could someone else not be king? 

 

He missed his father.

 

His gaze roamed across the third class deck below. He saw a family with two young children, kicking a ball across the deck’s hardwood. He saw four men dressed in ragged clothing, smoking hand rolled cigarettes and laughing heartily. He saw three women lounging and taking the sun in, chatting amicably amongst themselves. They looked so content together, he wished that he could join in on their merriment.

 

One of the women was dressed in skirts too short to be proper with long, dark hair that cascaded down her back in waves. As he watched, she cackled raucously, throwing her head back and laughing to the skies. The second had short dark hair in braids; she was adorned in a long floral-patterned dress, and she appeared shy. The third had her back to him, but he could see her long strawberry blonde hair, pulled back into a plait that trailed down her back. She wore a white blouse and high-waisted wide-legged black pants. 

 

She must have felt his gaze, for she turned over her shoulder to look at him and their eyes met.

 

* * *

 

Over the years of living as a nomad, Ava Hawke had learned to trust, above all else, her heart and her gut. Her head could lead her astray, but her instinct never did. 

 

So when she felt the hairs raise on the back of her neck, she listened to her instinct and turned.

 

There, standing on the first class deck, was the most handsome man she had ever seen. The eyes that bored into hers were bright blue, contrasting against golden skin. He had cheekbones sharp as daggers, a well-structured nose, full lips, and a strong jaw that she wished to cup in her palm. At first she thought his hair was chocolate, but when the sun glanced off of it she spotted chestnut hues.

 

Even when he looked away, his cheeks flushing in what she hoped wasn’t shame from staring at a third class woman, Hawke could not peel her eyes away. He was dressed in such finery that she knew he had to be absurdly wealthy, and with her barely having two pennies to rub together she doubted she would see him again. So she seized the moment and stared, taking in as much as she could before the moment passed.

 

No, she thought, clenching one hand into a fist. She would see him again, she was sure of it. Whatever it took, she would find a way. In his eyes there was too much sadness and sorrow, and she considered it her life’s work while she was on this ship to see him smile. 

 

“Oh, kitten,” Isabela purred. “Don’t bother, you’ll only set yourself up for disappointment.”

 

No, she wouldn’t. Somehow, some way, she would meet this man.

 

She had to.


End file.
